


these stars were meant to burn

by ikeracity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Actually Love at First Sight, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst with a Happy Ending, From Sex to Love, M/M, Period Appropriate Homophobia, Period Typical Attitudes, Prostitution, Switching, author is not sure if she succeeded, mostly - Freeform, research was attempted, top!Charles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The streets were an escape for Charles, and selling his body is the price he pays now to survive.  Soon, he's promised, he'll be taken away from all this, once Erik, his regular client and lover, comes into his inheritance.</p><p>How unfortunate it is that even the best intentions leave such pain in their wake. </p><p>(another regency AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riais](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riais/gifts).



> I promise I'm working on all my other WIPs, too. _Promise_. Plus I have most of this written so it won't be a WIP for long. Also promise.

PROLOGUE

The man who stood in the center of Charles’ confined flat was, without question, a nobleman. He was plainly dressed, but his garments were impeccably-kept and fashionable, incorporating all the accents of current, high-society vogue. His boots were polished, his cravat tied perfectly. He stood tall and straight, with faultless posture that could only have been taught by private tutors over a childhood filled with endless lessons on propriety. He surveyed Charles’ domain with an imperiousness in his eye that could only belong to an aristocrat who had known splendorous places and who, on even the very worst days, would normally never deign to set foot within three leagues of such a slum as this.

Charles did not receive many lords in his profession. He saw throngs of middle-class gentlemen and occasionally a well-off workingman, but very seldom did nobility stoop to his level. They had their own ways of relieving their urges, and pride kept them from buying pleasure from any offering boy on the streets. In his yearlong career thus far, Charles had seen only two lords of significant stature, one of whom had fled in disgust before stepping into the flat. The other had taken his fill of Charles and departed in a hurry without even paying, clearly too nervous and too ashamed to linger.

He was understandably wary now. Workingmen and those from the middle-class were simple; they understood what Charles offered, they understood what was required of them, and they paid Charles what he was due. But noblemen—one never knew what one could expect from them. They were snakes, slithering into the muddy dirt where they did not belong to deal with mice who were expected to give them what they wanted or risk being eaten. He would have to deal carefully with this man; one wrong step could mean his livelihood and, if he were very unlucky and the lord very persistent in destroying him, his life.

This lord was handsome, his features sharp, his eyes clear and intense. He was well-groomed, with clean-shaven cheeks and neatly combed hair. He did not look cruel, nor did he seem particularly kind. But Charles knew better than most that character could not be judged based upon appearances, and so he resolved to reserve his verdict until he had gathered adequate evidence. For now, he would wait and observe.    

“I have never…” the man began, slowly. His voice was confident, but his eyes were guarded as they flicked restlessly around the room, taking in Charles’ desk, empty of any decoration except for two thin novels, and the bed, which Charles had made up carefully before his arrival. “I have never resorted to this before. You must excuse me if I seem tense.”

Ah, this was familiar. Charles smiled reassuringly from where he stood by the fireplace, close enough for the man to touch if he reached out, far enough away so that the man would not feel crowded. “You would not be the first.”

The man’s lips quirked up humorlessly. “No, I would not, would I?” 

Charles paused, uncertain. Most men did not like to be reminded that they were paying to use what had already been used before. Some men found comfort in the fact that they were not alone in their penchants. He could not tell at a glance to which of these groups this lord belonged. Eventually, he said, “My name is Charles. You need not tell me yours.”

Almost all his clients remained anonymous, for fear of discovery. But this man, after a brief moment of hesitation, sketched out a bow to him, as one might greet a gentleman of similar stature, and said, “Mr. Erik Lehnsherr. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Charles was so thoroughly shocked at the signal of respect that he forgot himself, falling back into old, ingrained habits. He bowed, too, low but not deferential, as if they were of the same rank. Then, realizing what he had done, he flushed and backed away a step. “Forgive me. I should not have—”

Mr. Lehnsherr watched him closely, his brow furrowed. “Where did you learn to execute so perfect a bow? Not on the streets, surely.”

Charles hesitated, his heart skittering in his chest. Even a year later, the fear still lay fresh inside him: the bone-deep terror that word would get back to Westchester about a familiar blue-eyed boy living in the streets and his stepfather would come for him. It felt silly to still be afraid; he had escaped Kurt Marko, and Marko would be glad for it, glad to have Charles out of the way, glad to see his death speculated in the gossip mill of town. He had no reason to come after Charles now, had no reason to want Charles discovered, and yet Charles was still fearful and still wary. His memories of his stepfather consisted of violence and scars.

“Everyone comes from somewhere,” he replied at last. “Even boys for sale in the street.”

Mr. Lehnsherr did not look satisfied with his answer but did not press the matter. He shifted restlessly on his feet, sliding a sidelong look at the door as if he were wondering if he could make an escape without Charles noticing. He said finally, “I come here on the recommendation of a friend. I have been told that you will be discreet.”

“I have accepted you as a client on the basis of that same recommendation,” Charles replied. “I do not normally offer my services to gentlemen of high birth such as yourself, but if discretion is your priority, then I shall make it mine.”

Mr. Lehnsherr stared at him cagily. “What do you know of me?”

“I know very little of you,” Charles answered honestly. “Before you told me, I did not even know your name. If you are worried I will expose you, or perhaps blackmail you into paying me an income in return for my silence, you need not worry. Turning you in to the law would necessarily expose myself, which would be senseless. And furthermore, your title and wealth lend you credibility I could not afford; if I should try to fight against you, I would not win.”

“Is that meant to reassure me?”

“Does it?”

“It does, minutely.”

“Then yes.” Charles thought about moving to the bed but decided against it; he did not want to appear as if he were pressuring Mr. Lehnsherr into anything. Still, Mr. Lehnsherr looked ill at ease, as if he might shy away and call off the venture entirely if Charles so much as looked wrongly in his direction.

“You may leave at any time you wish,” Charles said, gentling his tone. “I will not keep you. I am here to serve you in any capacity you see fit, for as long as you choose tonight. Please do not feel apprehensive.”

“How can I feel otherwise,” Mr. Lehnsherr replied impatiently, “when the consequence of our actions is death?”

“Only if we are caught,” Charles murmured, “and I have never been caught.” He took a cautious step forward and, when the young lord did not retreat, closed the distance between them slowly. As he reached out, Mr. Lehnsherr did not flinch, only watched him with narrowed eyes. Charles took his hand, the skin of Mr. Lehnsherr’s palm warm against his, and raised it his lips. “As I said, you may leave at any time, should you wish it. But if you stay, I will do my best to make it worthwhile to you.”

Mr. Lehnsherr shuddered slightly as Charles’ mouth brushed his knuckles. He let out a rapid exhalation and asked, “May I kiss you?”

Charles smiled. “You do not need to ask me. But yes.”

Mr. Lehnsherr placed his free hand on Charles’ neck, over his cravat, cradling Charles’ head as he leaned forward and hesitantly touched his lips to Charles’. His tentativeness made Charles smile. He freed his hands so he could grip the lapels of the lord’s jacket and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. Mr. Lehnsherr did not seem well-versed in such intimacy, uncertain as he was, but there was something endearing in his shyness, something wonderful. He tasted faintly of sweat and apples, an oddly sweet combination. Drinking him in, Charles steered him to the bed, where he pushed him down gently onto the bed and stepped back, breaking the kiss.

Mr. Lehnsherr was flushed, his eyes wide. He watched riveted as Charles stripped off his jacket and pulled off his cravat. When he began to unbutton his waistcoat, Mr. Lehnsherr reached up and stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“Please,” he said. “May I?”

Charles let go of the button and smiled again, as much in reassurance as in amusement. “As I said, you need not ask.”

He was used to men undressing him quickly and roughly. Some men, though, liked to take their time, exploring with their eyes as they pulled apart Charles’ garments one by one to reveal the pale skin underneath. Mr. Lehnsherr fell into the latter category, his eyes roaming across Charles’ body as he tugged away his waistcoat and then his shirt underneath. Once Charles’ torso was bare, Mr. Lehnsherr paused, touching the faint freckles across Charles’ belly with questing fingers. Charles held perfectly still for him, holding his breath.

He did not know what he expected from Mr. Lehnsherr’s scrutiny, but it was not what he said next, which was, “You are too thin.”

Charles started as Mr. Lehnsherr’s fingers ran across his ribs, which were a little too sharp and jutted slightly from his skin. Chagrined, he said, “I am sorry if I am not what you expected. I assure you I can still service you adequately—”

“That is not my concern,” Mr. Lehnsherr interrupted, his brow furrowed. “You must not eat nearly enough.”

Charles almost laughed. He managed to restrain the sound in a tight smile as he replied, “In these parts of the city, we are not the most well-fed of beings. You ought not to worry. Would you like to finish undressing me?” When Mr. Lehnsherr did not move, Charles’ smile faltered. “If my thinness is displeasing to you—”

“You are not displeasing,” Mr. Lehnsherr breathed. “You are—you—” He looked down, seemingly embarrassed. “I am sorry. I have never done this before.”

“Engaged in intercourse?” Charles guessed. A man with a rank such as Mr. Lehnsherr was no doubt carefully watched and esteemed and, as such, had fewer opportunities to indulge in his sexual appetites than a workingman of whom little was expected. But with the sort of wealth that Mr. Lehnsherr seemed to carry, there were doubtlessly maids in abundance around the estate, and likely quite a few stable boys as well. It all depended, Charles supposed, on how discreet Mr. Lehnsherr had been with his affections.

“I have,” Mr. Lehnsherr answered, his cheeks reddening, “but never with a man.” He took a breath and settled his hands at the waistband of Charles’ trousers. “You will have to tell me what to do.”

“You may do whatever you would like,” Charles murmured, charmed by how the young lord looked to him for instruction. “There is no wrong way to go about this. What makes you feel good is appropriate.”

After a moment of hesitation, Mr. Lehnsherr pulled Charles’ trousers down, sliding them slowly down his legs and allowing them to pool at Charles’ ankles. Once, Charles had felt shy, standing naked and so exposed to be examined. Now, he stood unabashedly, waiting for Mr. Lehnsherr to look his fill. A shadow of apprehension passed across the young lord’s face before he set his hands on Charles’ hips and pulled Charles closer, so that his legs were bracketed by Mr. Lehnsherr’s knees.

“You are…” Mr. Lehnsherr leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Charles’ stomach, just under his ribs. He trailed his lips down across Charles’ skin, languidly, exploring the slopes of his torso with his mouth. Charles placed his hands on Mr. Lehnsherr’s shoulders and breathed shallowly through his nose, shivering almost imperceptibly at the warm breath ghosting across his body. He could feel his cock beginning to harden at the touch. Strange. He was not normally aroused so quickly with so little. Then again, his clients were not customarily considerate lovers; they did not often care whether or not Charles took pleasure from their activities, so long as they themselves received what they expected. But Mr. Lehnsherr was not throwing him down onto the bed and sliding crudely into him. He was kissing a line down Charles’ side, soft and sweet, and Charles could do nothing else but stand there and let him, shivering though the room was warm with firelight.

“What would you like to do?” he asked into Charles’ hip.

“I told you, anything you would like.”

“But I am asking you what you would like.” Mr. Lehnsherr looked up at him, eyes intent. “I am not certain how to proceed. Direct me.”

Charles hesitated for a brief moment, considering. Then he nodded and said, “Lie back.”

Mr. Lehnsherr obeyed without question, stretching out onto the bed with his head on the pillow and his body spread out tensely for Charles to see and touch. Charles climbed onto the bed beside him and bent down to kiss him on the lips, soft and slow. As he did, he began to undo Mr. Lehnsherr’s cravat, pulling it free of its knot before working at the buttons on his waistcoat. The fabric of his clothing was soft and rich beneath Charles’ fingers, and Charles laid the cravat neatly aside, gesturing for Mr. Lehnsherr to sit back up so Charles could slide off his jacket and waistcoat. The young lord was strongly built, trim and well-muscled. He had a beautiful body hidden beneath his apparel, long and slender and firm, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist that tapered away into powerful thighs and lean legs. Charles exposed every bit of him slowly, peeling away one layer of clothing at a time until at last the lord was as naked as he, and they sat together on the bed, bare and intimate.

“What do you want me to do?” Mr. Lehnsherr asked into the silence.

“I think, to start,” Charles said, “I would like to put my mouth on you, if you are amenable.”

Mr. Lehnsherr seemed confused by what he was asking, so he knelt between the lord’s legs and bent so that his lips brushed the tip of his cock. Mr. Lehnsherr gasped aloud, startled, and jerked as if to move away. “What are you—”

Charles paused. “If you would not like me to pleasure you this way, you need only tell me to stop. But I think you will like it, if you would let me try.”

Mr. Lehnsherr swallowed, his eyes wide. Then he nodded, and Charles bent his head again, this time taking Mr. Lehnsherr into his mouth, tasting the faint bitterness of the leaking at his slit. Above him, Mr. Lehnsherr moaned, his hands clenching hard into the blankets around him. “Oh God,” he panted, “I have never—I did not think—”

Charles pulled off him with a slow, long lick. “Are you all right?”

“Do not stop,” Mr. Lehnsherr gasped, his eyes gone dark with arousal. “Please do not stop.”

Obligingly, Charles took him into his mouth again and began to suck unhurriedly. Mr. Lehnsherr was well-endowed, and Charles did not think he could swallow down his entire girth without choking. He made do with one hand on the base of Mr. Lehnsherr’s cock, pumping in time with the pulls of his mouth. Within minutes, Mr. Lehnsherr was lying nearly incoherent on the bed, his every muscle tightened, his eyes riveted on Charles’ face and his mouth hanging open with pleasure. He was breathing loudly, almost in gasps, and Charles was aroused to see him so discomposed, so different from the stern-faced gentleman who had first knocked on his door. He could not stop himself from rubbing his own erection against the bed, seeking relief for a sort of burning need that he had not felt in a long while. He moaned softly as his cock pressed between his belly and the sheets, and Mr. Lehnsherr let out a quiet whine, his eyes fixing themselves to the grind of Charles’ hips. How long it had been, since he had received pleasure even as he gave it. It was slight and could bear no comparison to a hand touching him or a mouth on him, but it was enough. It was something.

Mr. Lehnsherr moaned his name again and again, and the sound of it tearing from the man’s throat like a plea made Charles shudder with want. He had had his fair share of attractive men in his bed, but none of them had looked at him like Mr. Lehnsherr was looking at him now, with wide, honest eyes that filled with nothing but pleasure and the slightest awe. He looked at Charles not as if he were something dirty, something to be ashamed of, but as if he were precious to behold. It was as unexpected as it was heartening, and that made Charles want more than ever to please him, to repay his strange kindness in the only way he knew how. He gentled his movements, allowing them to slow further into a greater intimacy than the efficient, practiced pace with which he had begun. As his lips slid up to the head of Mr. Lehnsherr’s thickness, the lord reached down to weave long fingers in through his hair, pulling him closer.

“Charles,” he panted, his voice strained. “Please.” His words dissolved into a wordless noise when Charles took him deep into his mouth again, allowing his length to push in until it hit the back of his throat. He held the position for a moment, his hand languidly pumping at the base of Mr. Lehnsherr’s cock. Those dark eyes did not waver from his face for a second, so intent were they on the sight of Charles’ lips pulled tight. Then Charles sucked, forceful and long, and Mr. Lehnsherr came with a cry, his hips jerking helplessly as he spilled his seed into Charles’ mouth, his pupils blown wide and his hand fisting almost painfully in Charles’ hair. His entire body stiffened under Charles’ hands, thighs drawn whipcord tight, muscles clenching in one arch of pleasure. Charles rode out his orgasm patiently, coaxing him slowly back down from his high. He sucked languidly until he was sure he had wrung every last drop of pleasure the lord had it in him to give, and then he allowed Mr. Lehnsherr’s softening cock to slip from his mouth.

For a long moment, he lay between Mr. Lehnsherr’s thighs, swallowing back the taste of the man. Both of them panted into the silence of the night, Mr. Lehnsherr more harshly than he. Without quite meaning to, he looked up and placed one hand along Mr. Lehnsherr’s heaving ribs, feeling out the rise and fall of his hot skin, covered over with a thin layer of sweat. Mr. Lehnsherr released his grip on Charles’ hair and placed his newly-freed hand over Charles’, pressing him in closer, so that Charles thought he could feel a heartbeat, beating strongly against his palm.

“Thank you,” Mr. Lehnsherr said eventually, when he had recovered sufficiently to speak. “That was…”

“You have no need to thank me,” Charles replied, his nose nudging the sharp line of Mr. Lehnsherr’s hip. “I have only given you what you were due.”

Mr. Lehnsherr flushed, a rise of color that was noticeable even with his face reddened from their exertions. Sitting up, he fumbled for his jacket, from which he withdrew several monetary notes. “I am sorry,” he said, offering them to Charles. “I did not inquire closely enough about your…about your fee. Have I given you adequate payment or do I owe you still?”

Charles stared down at the notes in his hand. Five pounds. “You have given me too much,” he protested, attempting to hand the money back. “I am worth only twenty shillings.”

Mr. Lehnsherr’s eyes widened. “No. No, you are worth much more than that, surely.” He pushed the notes into Charles’ hand. After a moment of hesitation, he said quickly, almost as if in embarrassment, “I cannot give you pounds enough to equal your worth. Five is a meager offering.”

For a moment, Charles’ breath stuck in his throat. He felt suddenly, perilously, close to tears. “Why are you—why are you behaving so kindly toward me?”

Mr. Lehnsherr appeared to think for a minute. Then he reached forward and closed Charles’ fingers around the notes. “Because you are the first one to…to make me feel that what I like is all right. I have hidden my preferences for longer than I can remember. I have thought of myself as unnatural for so long, but tonight, with you, it was not so.”

Charles smiled tentatively at him, and then, when the lord did not protest, laid his hand over his. “You are not alone, Mr. Lehnsherr. You need not hide with me.”

The man hesitated for a second, a deep gratitude in his eyes. Then he said, “Erik.”

“Pardon?”

“Erik. That is my name.” Mr. Lehnsherr turned his hand so that he could slide his fingers through Charles’. “Let us not hide behind titles either, if we are to strip away all the masks.”

“Erik.” Charles’ heart pounded thrillingly against his chest. He had not felt this warm in years. “Will you…will you come again?”

At that, Erik laughed, soft and amused. “You could not keep me away. Not after what you have shown me tonight.” Then his smile faded somewhat as he glanced over to the dusty clock that sat on the mantel. “But I must be off soon. I am expected home.”

“Of course.” Disappointment sank into him, but he rose dutifully and helped Erik back into his clothes and then attended to his own. He saw the lord to the door, where Erik turned and hesitated on the threshold.

“May I see you next Tuesday?” he asked, almost shyly. “Will this same time be convenient for you?”

“That will be perfect.”

“Good. Then I shall…I shall be off.” He lingered for a moment, his eyes drawing up across Charles’ face as if memorizing him for further contemplation later. Then he turned on his heel and started down the darkened hall, his tall, elegant figure fading first into the shadows of the building and then into the shadows of the night. Charles watched him go and then shut the door when he had disappeared. Turning back to his flat, he felt a sudden, aching pang of loneliness.

Next time he would be bolder, he thought as he banked the fire and climbed into the bed, which was still warm with the imprint of Erik’s body and still filled with Erik’s scent. Next time he would ask him to stay.  


	2. Chapter 2

ONE YEAR LATER

Mr. Lehnsherr, as always, arrived precisely on time. The clock over the mantel had just struck ten o'clock when the knock came at the door, loud and ringing in the silence that had pervaded the afternoon. Mr. Lehnsherr never liked for Charles to take on clients within a few hours of their appointment; it was as if he wanted to pretend that Charles was his and his alone, and Charles was all-too-willing to indulge in that fantasy. It was not the idea that Mr. Lehnsherr owned him that made Charles almost ache sometimes with longing. It was the idea that they owned each other.

He set down his book and rose from the small, cramped desk that sat in the darkest corner of the room. He would have liked it in the more brightly-lit section near the window, but that was where the bed stood. Some of his clients liked the way the sunlight fell over his shoulders, liked enough light to look him in the face as they thrust into him. Their preferences were what kept him in business and what kept his university fund growing, so he allowed them their proclivities and pushed his desk to the unused corner where it would not disturb them.

Mr. Lehnsherr had told him once he would ruin his eyesight sitting in the dark. It was the first time since he had moved into this tiny flat that anyone had cared enough to say anything.

The knock came again, and his stomach tightened with anticipation. He straightened his waistcoat, tightened his cravat, and tried not to smile too broadly as he opened the door.

"Good evening, Mr. Xavier," Mr. Lehnsherr said politely, sketching out a quick bow.

Charles could not hold back his smile. "Mr. Lehnsherr," he returned, equally polite as he bowed in return. At that, Mr. Lehnsherr smiled, too, eager and amused, and Charles stepped back to allow him entry.

Charles' flat was merely one room with an adjacent washroom. From the doorway, it was only a handful of paces to the bed, which many clients were glad for, so impatient were they to bed Charles and have their money's worth. But Mr. Lehnsherr never went for the bed first; no, he lingered here and there, as if seeing the room anew each time, studying the faded pictures on the mantelpiece and bending over to peer at the titles of the books stacked neatly on the darkened corner desk.

He was impossibly handsome, Charles thought as he watched the young lord inspect the book he had set down on the desk earlier. And Charles was impossibly fond of him.

"Fontenelle?" he said, holding up the volume in question.

"Fascinating book," Charles replied, grinning. "Plurality of worlds—it sounds almost like a fairytale, does it not? Life on the moon. Planets like ours. I find it enthralling."

He would never have elaborated with other clients, fearing he would speak out of turn, but Mr. Lehnsherr seemed to take special pleasure in hearing Charles' voice. He smiled now and said, "I find you enthralling."

Charles glanced away, embarrassed and flattered. "You give me so many kind words, sir. You need not; your money buys my cooperation for as long as you will it."

Mr. Lehnsherr laid the book back down and stepped closer, bringing his hand up to cup Charles' jaw. "Could I not buy your cooperation with kind words instead?"

He shivered at the touch and closed his eyes. "My cooperation requires no price," he said honestly. "For you, I will go willingly."

"Then come," Mr. Lehnsherr whispered. He tugged Charles closer by the ends of his cravat and kissed him.

Mr. Lehnsherr had a peculiar way of kissing. Some men did not like to kiss at all. Most, ashamed of what they were doing and with whom, preferred to use him as quickly as possible, throw money at him as they pulled their clothes back on, and rush out the door with their faces averted, as if they were afraid Charles would recognize them. Some enjoyed dominating him, kissing him with bruising force and throwing him down onto the bed as if every movement was a battle and every mark they left on his skin a victory. But Mr. Lehnsherr kissed gently, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world and as if this one kiss was the memory he would take from each night—not the penetration, not the searing orgasms, not the breathless, boneless moments in between, but this kiss: lips sealed together, breaths shared in the dim, hot space of the flat, a fully-dressed intimacy that Charles had never known with anyone else.

"Erik," he breathed when they parted, just an inch of space between their faces. He was always "Erik" when they touched, never Mr. Lehnsherr. It was an added layer of informality and something close to friendship that Charles did not dare examine too closely, lest he find disappointment within. Most men never called him by name. The most vicious snarled "whore" and "slut" in his ear as they pushed into him, angry with him as if he had seduced them into his flat, when in truth they had come to him. He addressed them all by "sir" one by one, sometimes "master" when they required it. But Mr. Lehnsherr he called "Erik" and he was returned his name in kind.

"Charles," Erik breathed back, his eyes bright and his smile reckless. "Come, come, to bed."

He went gladly, spread out on his back for Erik to cover, except Erik sat by his side instead and tugged at his hip. Confused and intrigued, Charles sat up.

"I want to try something different tonight," Erik said, caressing his knee as he spoke.

Charles loosened his cravat, deft fingers untying the knot with the speed of practice. "Anything."

Erik pulled his own cravat free of his neck and laid it on the bedside table next to the unlit candle. He stripped off his jacket next and began to unbutton his waistcoat. He always undressed himself with simple efficiency, considering it an avenue between dressed and nude, nothing more. But Charles—oh, when he undressed Charles, he did so slowly, like he was exploring uncharted territory that he wanted to commit to memory forever. His fingers traced the lines of Charles' freckles and followed them with kisses, each warm press of lips a searing brand against his skin. He imagined that were it possible to read words on bodies like books, his would read _Erik_ at every curve.

Erik reached for him tonight but did not push him down. He was already naked himself when he began to undo the buttons of Charles' waistcoat, which was frayed at the hems and not nearly as marvelously embroidered as Erik's own. Erik, as well as other men, had offered to buy him new clothes before, but he was not a charity case. He would wear his own clothes with as much dignity as he had left. It was not as if many of them noticed anyway, so eager were they to strip his garments from him. But after his first refusal, Erik had not offered to buy him gifts again. Erik understood the value of pride. He ran his hands now over Charles' old, mended trousers and his faded jacket, his expression neither condescending nor pitying, merely fond. Charles smiled at him and held still as Erik pulled his clothes apart, one item at a time: cravat, then jacket, then waistcoat, then shirt, then trousers. When they were both bare, they climbed onto the bed together, pushing back the covers. Charles sat by the headboard, awaiting Erik's word.

"I would like," Erik said, kissing Charles' shoulder as he did, "for you to take your pleasure from me tonight."

"I always take pleasure from you," Charles sighed, pressing his lips to the crown of Erik's head.

"I mean that I would like you to fuck me tonight," Erik clarified. "Forgive my language."

Charles went very still. For almost two years now he had been selling his body, and he had never once been asked this. He had rarely been asked anything, only ordered.

He took a breath. “I am not certain I could do it,” he said quietly.

“I will guide you through it,” Erik replied, pulling on his arm as he lay back so that Charles hovered over him. “Please. I would like to do this for you.”

“This is not about me,” Charles told him, brow furrowing.

Erik laughed. He so rarely laughed that each instance was a sight to behold, and this time, it momentarily stole Charles’ breath away. “Do you not understand, Charles?” he asked, amused. “It is always about you.” His eyes were soft and warm as they traced the lines of Charles’ face. “Do this for me, if not for yourself.”

Charles hesitated a moment longer before acquiescing. There was not truly much of a choice; for Erik, there was very little he would not do. “Tell me what to do.”

At Erik’s behest, he took the tin from the drawer in the bedside table and slicked his fingers with it. He had watched his clients do this many times over, but he had seldom done it himself, and never to another person. Erik let his legs fall open and directed Charles to settle between them. Hesitantly, Charles ran his fingers down the crease of Erik’s arse, pleased when he elicited a sharp gasp. Carefully, he slipped in one finger, watching Erik’s face for signs of distress. Erik clenched his jaw and winced but did not signal for him to stop. So he worked his finger in deeper, fighting the tight press of Erik’s body, stretching him open as he himself had been stretched open so many times before, and with far less care. He knew the initial pain of being penetrated, by fingers or by cock, so he tried to lessen the pressure as much as he could, working in another finger and scissoring slowly so that Erik might accustom himself to the burn.

“Tell me if I am hurting you,” he murmured.

“It will take more than your fingers to hurt me,” Erik replied, his lips tilted up in a smirk.

“You are an arrogant devil,” Charles muttered, spreading Erik wide on his fingers. His cock hung heavy and hard between his legs, aroused by the thought of pushing into the same heat his fingers now occupied. Erik’s cock, normally stiff with barely a touch, was flagging now, no doubt due to the discomfort. Charles wondered if he should stop, if Erik would back away before they went any further.  He would not mind; this night was not his, it was Erik’s, bought and paid for. But Erik did nothing, except to spread his legs a little wider to ease the pressure and take hold of Charles’ free hand, bringing it up to his mouth for a soft, burning kiss.

“I think,” Charles said at last, as amazed at Erik’s patience as much as at his own; he was hard and leaking, eager to be touched. Erik had evidently found some pleasure in his fingers, for his erection had returned full-force,  curving up toward his belly. “I think you are ready. How do you feel?”

“As ready as I ever shall be,” Erik answered, shifting slightly and then stifling a groan as the motion pushed Charles’ fingers deeper into him. Charles waited a moment before pulling his fingers free from Erik’s body, watching Erik’s face spasm as his body clenched around emptiness.

“Are you sure you want this?” Charles persisted, taking his cock in hand and leaning forward between Erik’s legs. It would be difficult for him to stop, so close to taking Erik as he was, so powerful was the arousal pumping through his very blood, but he would stop if Erik asked. 

“I am sure,” Erik replied hazily, “that in this moment, I want nothing else.”

In response, Charles laid the head of his cock against Erik’s slick hole and pushed forward. The resistance of Erik’s body, even with the fingering, was almost too tight, but he continued to press steadily in until the tip of his cock breached Erik’s entrance, drawing groans from them both. Charles sank deeper into Erik, deeper and deeper until he could sink no more, and then he stopped, panting with the pleasure of being buried so fully in another person, of being engulfed in Erik as Erik had so often been engulfed in him.

“Are you—” he asked, his legs trembling with the effort to hold still.

“I am all right,” Erik answered before he could finish, though his voice sounded strained. “Go on, I am fine.”

“Erik…” He saw sweat beading on Erik’s brow, saw the pinched set of his mouth. “Please do not lie to me.”

Erik’s chest rose unsteadily as he took a breath. “I am not lying. I will be fine.”

Charles huffed out a breath. “Then I will wait until you are.”  

A look of exasperation crossed Erik’s face. “You are irritatingly stubborn.”

Now Charles laughed, breathlessly. “So you have told me often.” His arms were beginning to burn from holding his weight off Erik. He leaned back slightly to shift the strain to his legs and in doing so pulled an inch out of Erik. He could not muffle the soft moan that escaped his throat at the delicious friction, though he tried.

“Stop that,” Erik said.

Charles froze. “Stop what?”

“Stop censoring yourself. I like your voice too much to hear it stifled.”

“You are far too fond of my voice,” Charles panted with a smile.

“I am far too fond of your everything,” Erik returned, rolling his hips experimentally. The movement pushed Charles all the way back in, and this time Charles let his groan out, loud and wanton. He rocked his hips into Erik slowly, feeling pleasure beginning to pool at the base of his spine. The wet heat of Erik’s body was glorious. He had fucked girls before, but those had been serving girls, wenches as young and inexperienced as he. Erik was different; Erik was strong and insistent underneath him, wrapping his legs around Charles’ waist and drawing him deeper and deeper, wanting everything Charles could give and more. Charles’ cautiousness disappeared upon seeing Erik’s eagerness, and he plunged into Erik again and again, moaning through gritted teeth as Erik’s tight hole took him, with difficulty at first but then with greater ease with every thrust. The friction was perfect, the pleasure blinding. He whimpered as his hips snapped forward, and Erik began to let out low, pleasured sounds, his mouth going slack, his hands gripped white-knuckled in the bed-sheets. Then Charles arched upwards, driving deep as he could, and Erik cried out hoarsely. Charles had never heard him scream before and nearly stopped in astonishment, but Erik gasped out, “There, again,” and Charles repeated the motion until Erik moaned, his eyes rolling back, his head thrown into the pillow, exposing the long, sweaty column of his neck. Charles could not help himself; he leaned down and licked at the sweat collecting at the base of Erik’s throat, slowing his thrusts to an excruciating grind. Erik released his hold on the bed-sheets to pull him down closer so that he could suck a kiss onto Charles’ neck, just underneath his jaw where the cravat would hide it. Charles never allowed any of his clients to mark him—it made for bad business, as no man ever wanted to deal with used product—but he did not stop Erik now. He was placing his mark on Charles’ neck as surely as he had placed one on Charles’ heart, long before either of them had ever realized it.

It was a quick finish after that, Charles unable to maintain the slow rhythm. He slammed into Erik’s body rapidly, punching wet gasps from Erik’s mouth, and then, when Erik deliberately clenched tight around him, he came with a loud cry, spilling himself hard into Erik. Almost too boneless to move and dizzy with pleasure, he retained enough presence of mind to wrap his hand around Erik’s cock and jerk him to his climax. Erik thrust mindlessly into the circle of his fingers until he stiffened and came, mouth open in a quiet, gasping moan as his seed spurted over Charles’ fingers and onto his belly.

They remained there for a moment: Charles half-collapsed over Erik, both of them panting harshly in the otherwise-silent night. The flat was sweltering, caught as it was in the summer’s heat, but there could be nothing better than being pressed close like this, skin to skin in a forbidden pleasure that they hid from the world. 

“How—” Erik said at last, when he had caught his breath. “How was it?”

Charles looked down at him, at the loose sprawl of his body with Charles still buried inside him, at the white come painting his lean stomach, at the sweaty, satisfied smile that showed too many teeth.

“Perfection,” he breathed. There was no other word for it. “You are perfection.”

Erik arched up to kiss him, palms curving warmly around his flushed face, lips gentle against his. With some difficulty, Charles pulled free of him, both of them sighing as they separated, wet seed running from Erik’s arse down the crease of his thigh. Charles meant to get up to fetch a cloth from the washroom to clean themselves off, but Erik took his hand and would not let him go.

“We will soil the sheets,” Charles murmured, sitting back down next to Erik, who lay languidly on his back.

Erik’s eyes flashed, his muscles tensing. “And we cannot have that, can we?” he said, his voice suddenly harsh. “You must be clean and virginal every time, for every man who parades through this bed, for every man for whom you will lie back and spread your legs.”

Charles drew back, stung. Flushed now with anger and with mute shame, he slid off the bed and walked to the washroom. He had several cloths tucked into the cupboard, ones he washed meticulously after every use. He took one of these now and paused for a moment to examine his reflection in the cracked, dusty mirror. His hair was ruffled, his skin slick with sweat. When he tilted his jaw up, he could see the beginnings of a dark bruise on his neck where Erik had set his lips and sucked. What sweet words men could say in the throes of passion. But it was the mean-spirited judgment that came after that Charles always remembered best.

When he returned, Erik was sitting up by the headboard, his expression contrite. “I am sorry.”

“For a man so kind to me, you can be exceptionally cruel,” Charles remarked quietly, passing him the cloth. He waited by the bed until Erik was finished wiping himself clean and then took the cloth back to the washroom, where he left it in the bucket of well-drawn water that sat by the door.

“I am sorry,” Erik said again, his voice softened at the edges. “I am not sure what came over me.” He shook his head. “No, I am sure. It was a bout of jealousy, nothing more.”

Charles sighed heavily. “A man in your position cannot afford to be jealous over a whore.”

“Do not say that,” Erik said, his brows drawing together in consternation. “You hate the word.”

“It is what I am.”

Erik stood and came to him, naked still, long and lithe. He gripped Charles by his upper arms, bending slightly to look him in the eye. “You are…breathtaking. You are kind, you are intelligent, and you are brave. No man could call you a whore on the worst of days, no matter how you must earn your keep. And I am your friend. Any fool who cares to speak ill of you must see his way through me first.”

Charles’ chest felt impossibly tight. He had to swallow past a lump in his throat before he could speak. “You are too kind,” he said, shaking his head. “With words like that, you could win any lady you fancied. Do not waste your affections on me.”

“I could not waste anything on you,” Erik replied. “Waste is unappreciated, but you receive my words so gladly.”

“Because I am a fool.”

“Then we are both fools.”

Charles laughed once, helplessly. “What can I say, when you have a riposte in mind for every occasion?”

“You need not say anything,” Erik answered, leading him back to bed. “You need only stay here with me.”

Sweet words, and Charles followed them like a child after the Pied Piper. Few men stayed after they had taken their fill of Charles, and those who did were never quite comfortable. They were afraid of being caught, though Charles was near certain that he was discreet enough to avoid detection. Most of his clients were middle-class citizens, those who desired a step above a molly house and enjoyed the illusion of a lover reserved solely for them. They always looked out-of-place in Charles’ flat, too tense to ever fit. But Erik—wealthy lordling as he was, Erik folded himself into Charles’ shadowy, moldy flat as if he could belong nowhere else, relaxed as if he were lounging in his own home. 

Charles settled into Erik’s arms and drew the covers up around them. There was only one pillow but they shared it comfortably, faces set close enough for their noses to touch. As the night drew in around them, he breathed in Erik’s scent and sighed, sated and content.

“Tell me more about Fontenelle,”  Erik said, his lips brushing Charles’ cheek.

“Mm,” Charles hummed. “He was a fascinating man. Quite the rebel of his time and cunning enough not to be caught. He posited about the vastness of the universe, about possibilities in the stars.”

“Possibilities in the stars,” Erik murmured. “I like the sound of that.”

“As do I.”

“Then tell me more.”

So Charles did.

 

*

 

One night, after they had made love slowly in the dark, after they had lit a candle and sat naked on Charles’ bed so they could pass back and forth a bottle of wine that Erik had brought, Erik said to Charles, “I will take you away from this.”

Slightly intoxicated, Charles leaned his head against his shoulder and asked, “What?”

“From this,” Erik repeated, waving his hand vaguely in a motion that Charles thought was meant to encompass Charles’ flat, the street, this life. “I will take you to Spain. To France. To Italy, if you would like. When I have my inheritance, I will take you anywhere you would like.”

“I would like to go to Oxford,” Charles told him.

“I will pay for your education,” Erik promised solemnly. His eyes were vague; he had drunk more than Charles. “Wherever you wish to go, I will fund you.”

“You are inebriated,” Charles said gently, taking the bottle from him. “You do not know what you are saying.”

“I know exactly what I am saying,” Erik retorted, forever stubborn.

“You do not know how many men have promised me similar things.”

Erik stiffened, as Charles knew he would. Even now, Charles was astonished at the depth of Erik’s affection for him, that he would feel jealous at losing Charles to another party, no matter how inevitable it was, given Charles’ profession. And Charles loved him for it, loved that he loved Charles enough to want to stake a claim, to promise to take Charles away from this place and mean it.

“And how many,” Erik said after a moment, clearly struggling to control himself and his words, “of those men would you have gone with, had they intended to follow through?”

“None,” Charles answered honestly. He had learned what disappointment meant in his early days in this flat, when he had still been naïve enough to trust senseless words. Now he knew better. “They gave me empty words, hollow assurances. They could no more take me from here than they could turn back time.”

“But I will,” Erik said softly, kissing Charles’ jaw, then his neck. His words, uttered so confidently, slurred at the corners, and his breath smelled sweet and lovely. “I love you.”

So simple a phrase, so powerful an impact. Charles felt shaken to his soul, as he did every time Erik stated his feelings so boldly, without shame or deceit or hesitation. He took Erik’s face between his hands and kissed his lips, tasting the wine that had loosened his tongue enough that he would give Charles these wonderful, heart-racing, endless dreams.

No, Erik had not been the first to make Charles promises. But he was the first that Charles believed.  

 

*

 

Tonight, Erik was late. Charles sat straight-backed on the edge of the bed, waiting. He had a book open on his lap, but he was not reading it; rather, his eyes were watching the hands on the clock, observing them as they signaled 10:05, then 10:15.

At last, at half past ten, a sharp knock echoed through the flat. Charles sprang up, his heart pounding, and set his book down on the bed before straightening his cravat and hurrying to the door.

Erik stood on the other side, drenched and shivering.

“My God,” Charles said, stepping aside. “Come in before you drown.”

Erik stalked in, his stride angry. He stood only on the threshold, keeping his arms trapped tightly to his side as if to avoid wetting Charles’ flat any more than necessary. Charles fetched linens from the cupboard in the washroom and handed them over to Erik, who took them gratefully and began to dry himself off.

“I thought you might have gotten waylaid in the storm,” Charles said, sitting on the edge of his desk as Erik wiped at his face. “I was worried.”

“I took the horse,” Erik said shortly. “The coach could not weather the storm.”

Charles frowned. “You needn’t have come. It is dangerous to ride in a torrent such as this.”

“I wanted to come,” Erik replied. His tone was still curt, jagged at the edges with ire. Charles studied him warily, wondering if any of that anger was meant for him and wondering what he might have done to provoke such antagonism. At his cautious glance, Erik let out a sigh, and the tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though his scowl remained fixed in place. “I do not mean to frighten you. My mood is not of import.”

“You are upset.”

“I am.”

“Is it any fault of mine?”

Surprise broke through the glower. Erik looked directly at him for the first time since he had entered the flat, his eyes wide. “Fault of yours? No, of course not. I am not cross with you. I am cross with my uncle.”

“Your uncle.” Charles recalled vague memories of one of their early rendezvouses, when Erik had told him that his uncle, serving as his guardian, had held onto his inheritance after his parents had passed and was entrusted with it until Erik turned twenty-one. “Mr. Shaw?”

Erik nodded, his usual grace turned jerky with agitation. “He is being difficult.”

Reassured that he was not the cause of Erik’s distress, Charles moved closer, taking the cloth from Erik’s hand and wiping the water from his neck as it ran down his chin to his cravat, which was now soaked and dirty with rainwater. “You should not have come,” he chided. “You are going to fall ill.”

“I could not stay there,” Erik bit out. “Not with him. And I could not think of anywhere else to go.”

Charles scoffed. “You have friends.”

Erik met his eyes, and the heat in his gaze cooled. “They do not understand me as you do.”

“I know very little about you,” Charles replied, brows furrowing.

Erik shrugged. “Knowing is one thing. Understanding is quite another.” 

At that, Charles laughed. “Have you become a philosopher while I was not looking?”

“No more than usual,” Erik said, a tiny quirk to his lips. Charles set the cloth aside and reached for Erik’s cravat, tugging the sodden fabric aside and letting it fall from his fingers. Then he worked on Erik’s jacket, then his waistcoat. He could feel Erik’s eyes on him as he moved, stripping him quickly from his wet clothes. There was nothing seductive in the action, only function; he could see Erik trembling from the cold. It would be best to get him into dry conditions as soon as possible.

“Sit,” he instructed once he had rid Erik of his clothes. Erik gave him an amused look before obeying, perching on the end of the bed before Charles shooed him under the covers. As Erik settled, Charles knelt by the fireplace and roused the fire from smoldering coals to full-flame. The darkness in the room receded, inch by inch. When the fire was hot against his face, he stood and began to undress himself methodically.

“You need not,” Erik said from the bed. His hair was still wet, his teeth clenched against the cold.

“I need not…?” Charles echoed as he peeled off his breeches.

“The only pleasure I seek tonight is your company.”

Charles paused in confusion. “You are paying for this night, as you do every Tuesday.”

Erik nodded. “I am. But tonight, I want to be with you. Simply be.”

He was still perplexed. Wearing only his shirt now, he stood at the foot of the bed and said slowly, “Tell me what to do.”

“Come here,” Erik said, nodding to the empty side of the bed. “Come sit with me.”

Charles climbed onto the bed and slipped under the covers by his side. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned up and kissed the corner of Erik’s lips, very lightly. Normally, he was never the active partner in any relation; he was paid to lie back and endure, not to initiate. But Erik never treated him as the lesser party in their arrangement, and because of that, Charles was not afraid of stealing a kiss, of touching Erik unbidden.

With a sigh, Erik turned his head toward him so that their lips brushed. “My uncle wishes me to marry,” Erik murmured against his mouth.

Charles drew back with a sharp breath. “What?”

“I am of prime age to marry,” Erik said, bitterness twisting the familiar lines of his face. “My uncle has been taking me around the circles to introduce me to viable candidates. He arranged for me to meet with one for dinner tomorrow, and I refused to attend. He is furious with me, and I with him. He simply wants her dowry, I know it. He has already squandered much of my parents’ wealth; his greed is insatiable. He cares not that I do not wish to be married. His only concern is that I find a noble wife before I am too old to tempt any girl.”

Charles remained silent for a long moment. Then he said through the solid lump lodged in his throat, “You should meet with her.”

Erik stared at him, shocked. “Why?”

“Who knows? You may like her—”

“Never,” Erik said vehemently. “I love you, Charles. They may call it unnatural, they may call it illegal and perverse, but I know I love you and I cannot change it.”

“I do not doubt it. I love you also.” Then he added, with difficulty, “But we both know this cannot last.”

“Do not say that,” Erik said, shaking his head. “Do not say that. This will last. The road may be arduous, but it can be travelled.”

“Erik, Erik,” Charles said, his throat tight. “Oh, how you dream of the most brilliant, impossible things. You make me almost believe them myself. But you should think of the future. I should not be a part of yours.”

“Why not?” Erik asked, his expression obstinate.

“Well—it is—it is unrealistic,” Charles stammered, his brow crinkling. “You ask such inane questions. You _know_ two men cannot—that even if I were not a—a boy who offers his body for money, even if I were a lord such as yourself, we would never be able to…” He shook his head helplessly. He felt dangerously on the edge of something dark and painful. “Do not speak of impossible dreams,” he begged. “You will make a believer of me.”

“That is all I want,” Erik whispered, sliding his hand around to Charles’ nape to cradle his head as he kissed him, slow and sweet. And Charles could not resist, he could not pull away, Erik called and he came, Erik spoke and he believed. It was reckless, it was foolish, but it felt, in that moment, as if there was truly a way to go, as if so long as they were willing to brave the darkness together, they would find light.

 

*

 

The next time they met, every touch felt wondrous and new. Erik laid Charles out on the bed and kissed him soundly, breathed him in as he spread his legs and pushed into him. They made love slowly, just the slightest rocking of their hips, and the pleasure between them built gradually to a crest, stuck to them like the sweat on their skin as they breathed raggedly into each other and strove toward an endless dawn.

Later, as they lay drowsy and entangled, Charles closed his eyes and said, “In France, I should like to see the Louvre. I have read that it is magnificent.”

He felt Erik’s smile more than saw it. “When we go to France, our itinerary shall be your choice.”

“I have been thinking, too,” Charles continued, “about what I want to study at Oxford.”

“Philosophy?”

“Natural philosophy. Some call it science.” Charles shrugged. “I find it all fascinating. Empirical studies, what we might discover with the power of observation rather than speculation, the sorts of things nature is capable of…How bizarre they might seem to the unread, and how extraordinary.”

Erik traced a finger down Charles’ cheek to the line of his jaw. “That sounds excellent. Are you to be the next Fontenelle of the world?”

“Oh, I could only aspire to be,” Charles laughed. “No, I do not wish to be revolutionary. I only wish to be learned.”

“Then learned you shall be,” Erik vowed. He kissed Charles’ bare shoulder, one hand trailing down to brush his thumb over Charles’ left nipple. Charles shivered at the contact and ran his own hand down to grip the lean curve of Erik’s arse. Erik’s erection nudged against his hip, and he could feel his own stirring, newly-interested. They rolled so that Charles straddled Erik’s narrow waist, Erik stretched out gloriously beneath him. He ground back and listened to Erik groan as his cock rode the crack of Charles’ arse.

“How do you fancy a ride, Mr. Lehnsherr?” Charles asked archly, smiling.

Erik’s broad hands gripped his hips tightly. “How are you at riding, Mr. Xavier?”

“Oh, the best.”

Erik grinned, too, toothy and sharp. “Allow me to assess the validity of that statement.”

Charles laughed and nodded, and Erik laughed, too, and Charles thought in that moment that his heart had never been lighter, that he had never felt freer, and that for the first time in his life, he might finally have found something that would last.

 

*

 

Erik came in a dark humor the following week.

“It is my uncle,” he said without preamble as he took off his jacket and laid it over the small chair beside the desk. “He has made it his priority to marry me off. I have seen six ladies in the last three days. It is intolerable. He does not understand.”

“He could not understand,” Charles said reasonably. “It would be dangerous if he knew.”

“It would,” Erik agreed, pulling restlessly at his waistcoat. “I have no other recourse than to be as irritatingly obstinate as possible until he capitulates. He is persistent but I can be more so.”

He sank down on the bed and waited, but Charles hesitated by the fireplace. When Erik lifted an eyebrow inquiringly, Charles forced a smile and said, “Let us try tonight with my clothes on. Come, it will be an adventure.”

But Erik frowned. “You do not look well, and you have not come near me since I came in. Are you ill?”

Charles was glad for the natural darkness of the flat, glad for the way it hid his face. Erik could read him too well in the light. “I am fine. I would merely like to try something new.”

“All right,” Erik said slowly. “Come here.”

Charles went to him, allowing Erik to press him back into the thin mattress and kiss his mouth. His eyes fell closed, and he breathed shallowly, intent on preserving moments like these so that the gentleness with which Erik handled him would remain imprinted on his mind forever. He had never truly appreciated this enough, he thought as Erik pressed slick fingers into him. Erik was so very kind, so very tender. Tonight, Charles was more aware of it than usual, was firmly conscious of how carefully Erik prepared him before easing into him, how thoughtfully Erik took Charles’ cock in hand and stroked in time with his thrusts, so that Charles took pleasure from him, too. When he came, it was with a breathless cry, spilling himself over Erik’s palm, and Erik groaned and fell with him, burying himself deep into Charles’ heat.

Erik pulled out slowly, and when his eyes met Charles’, they were concerned. “You are not sick, are you?”

Charles shook his head.

“Something is wrong.” Erik laid the back of his wrist against Charles’ forehead, though that was a useless gesture, as they were both sweating from their exertions. “You are normally far from quiet in bed, but you did not make a sound tonight. Tell me, what is it?”

Charles swallowed. “It is nothing.”

“Charles—”

“It is _nothing_.”

He made to sit up, but the motion made him wince and Erik saw it immediately. “I did not hurt you, did I?” he demanded, clearly distressed. “Let me see—”

As he reached out, Charles yanked himself away, but when he did so, his cravat, which had come loose of its knot when Erik had caught his fingers in it as he pushed steadily into Charles, slipped free of his neck. Erik sucked in a sharp, furious breath, his eyes pinned on the exposed skin.

“No,” he said, nearly inaudibly, “it was not I who hurt you, was it.”

It was not a question. Charles bent to pick up his cravat and turned away. “Please—”

“I will not pretend I did not see that,” Erik said, angry. He stood as Charles did and followed him to the dark corner of the room, by the desk. He was naked and still he seemed more authoritative than Charles did, fully-clothed. He jerked the cravat from Charles’ hand and tossed it next to the stack of books. Then he reached out and touched Charles’ jaw. “Look at me.”

“Do not,” Charles said tiredly. “There is nothing to be done now.”

“ _Look_ at me. Please.”

Erik, when he set his mind to something, was impossible to dissuade. So Charles steeled himself and turned so that the firelight fell across his front, trying not to grimace as Erik inhaled rapidly, his face going pale. Shock and then horror and then rage cycled through his expression in quick succession, and Charles fought the urge to shy away from the scrutiny. He knew what Erik saw: five dark bruises ringing his neck, corresponding to five fat fingers, dark shadows against the paleness of his skin. 

“Please do not be upset,” Charles said when Erik did not speak. “Not every man is as considerate as you, and this is not the first time you have seen evidence of the fact. I am fine.”

“Come here,” Erik said, his voice tight. “Let me see you.”

Reluctantly, Charles allowed himself to be drawn nearer to the fire and pushed down onto the bed. Erik pulled the wooden, stiff-backed chair from behind the desk and sat across from him, tilting his jaw up with a careful touch.

“Who did this to you?” he asked, anger threaded through his voice.

“You know I will not tell you,” Charles murmured. “I do not want you involved.”

“I am already involved. I am your—your—” He took a short breath. “I love you, and it hurts me to see you hurt.”

Charles’ heart clenched. It was both strange and wonderful to be worth someone’s concern. The weight of Erik’s regard for Charles, and of Charles’ for Erik, staggered him constantly. “It is the nature of what I do,” he said quietly. “I cannot change that.”

Helpless anger flashed across Erik’s face. “If I had my inheritance already, I would take you away from this in a heartbeat. I would tear apart any man who would dare to lay a hand on you.”

“My dear,” Charles whispered, taking Erik’s hands in his, “I am sure you would.”

Erik glowered for a moment more, nearly vibrating with rage. Then, as he sighed, the fury leached from his body, and he sagged forward, laying his head against Charles’ shoulder. “One year more,” he said into Charles’ jacket. “Wait one year more, and we shall be free from this.”

“One year,” Charles agreed, unwilling to believe but doing so anyway. What a terrible, wonderful thing hope was. It was difficult to imagine leaving this place and escaping the life he had been leading for the last two years. Before he had met Erik, he had thought more than once that he would not survive to see his seventeenth birthday. But he had, and now, here, it was not difficult to imagine this: Erik’s warmth by his side for all the foreseeable future, an ever-present lifeline keeping him afloat in the sweeping tides of change. It was only one more year before Erik would turn twenty-one, of age to claim his inheritance from his uncle, and when he did, they would be able to close the door on this chapter of their lives and start anew. Charles had survived a year in this flat without Erik and another with him. Now, buoyed by the strength of their bond, they could weather one last year.

Eventually, they migrated back to the bed, slipping under the covers together, where Erik pressed soft kisses to the bruises along his neck, as if he could erase them with his lips and retake what his nameless enemy had claimed. But he need not have worried, for his every touch, from his kisses to the barest brush of his fingers, left far deeper marks on Charles than any bruise could, and it would not matter how many men painted evidence of their passing across Charles’ skin; he was only ever, now and for always, Erik’s.

 

*

 

It was four weeks later that Erik missed their Tuesday appointment. Charles sat at his desk until eleven o’clock, at which time he got up and paced the short distance from his door to his bed, anxious and wondering if he should go out and look for Erik. This was not the most dangerous of neighborhoods, but it was not particularly safe either, not at night and not for a well-dressed gentleman travelling alone. He went to the door, agonized for a long few minutes, and then decided to stay. Perhaps Erik was merely late, and Charles did not want him to arrive at an empty flat when he came.

But he did not come. The clock showed midnight, then one, then two. Charles fell asleep in his chair at the desk and woke up with an aching back and stiff muscles six hours later, when dawn began to streak through the cracked shades on the windows. There was no sign of Erik, only Charles and the musty light of morning illuminating the bed that he had carefully made up in preparation for their night together.

He had no time to even worry; his first client of the morning arrived at half past eight, and there was nothing to be done but go about his day as if nothing was wrong.

It was in that time that he realized how very little he actually knew about Erik. He knew Erik’s name, his uncle’s name, and the fact that Erik was to inherit a handsome sum within the next year, but he did not know where Erik lived or any of his friends or how he might be contacted. Charles could not contact him anyway, for fear of their affair being discovered, but it frightened him to think that Erik could one day disappear entirely from his life and he would have no way of knowing what had happened.

Erik would not have left him. They had made promises to each other, the sorts that could not be broken. There had been dreams, so many of them, and Erik would not have thrown them away with so little warning, would not have thrown them away at all because he loved Charles and Charles loved him, and there was only one year left before Charles would be free of this place, free to be Erik’s entirely.

He was being dramatic. His clients missed appointments all the time; sometimes they forgot or they took ill or they could not sneak past their wives. Erik could be sick, for all Charles knew, laid up in bed with a fever. It was not a happy thought, but it was happier than abandonment, and Charles hoped Erik was all right and in good health, and that next Tuesday would see him to Charles’ door again.

But a letter came instead, that night, by a young, dirty-faced boy who had likely been plucked off the side of the street and given a coin to deliver an envelope discreetly. At his knock, Charles opened the door and took the letter from him, confused. Before he could ask any questions, the boy had scampered back off, disappearing around the corner and down the stairs.

He looked down at the envelope to see his name written in an unfamiliar hand. Frowning, he shut the door and walked to his desk, pulling the letter from the envelope as he did. The paper was crisp and thick under his fingers, indicative of a wealthy sender. But it bore no discernible seal on the outside, just a dribbling of wax with no inlaid pattern that could offer any hints regarding from whom the letter came. Charles pulled the chair from the desk nearer to the low fire, stirred the coals to lighten the room a bit, and began to read.

_C—_

_I cannot express to you how sorry I am in the few words I am allotted for this letter. It would take a far more eloquent man than I to fit so large a sentiment in so small a page. I am writing to inform you that our association must be terminated immediately. We must not see each other any longer, by necessity of reasons that I cannot and shall not endeavor to explain. Please do not look for me. I am sorry._

_—E_

He read the letter again, something cold and hard sinking down through his chest and settling at the bottom of his stomach, where it seemed to turn his insides to ice. The second review offered no clarification, no hidden meaning. He stood up, shaking, and put the letter on the mantelpiece. Then he walked to the washroom, took a glass of water, and drank. It was warm, gritty water to calm the twisting of his stomach, but when he returned to the fireplace, he felt sicker than he had before. He swayed there a minute, trying to work up the courage to pick up the paper again. _Do not be a fool,_ he thought finally. _A minute or an hour, you cannot change what is written there on that page._

He took the letter into his hands again and ran his eyes over it slowly, taking in each word. Surely there was something he was missing. A clue, a symbol, a jest that was escaping him. This could not be a letter of dismissal. This could not be goodbye.

Charles read it a dozen times over, but there was nothing there to discover, nothing to explain what seemed to him to be inexplicable. This letter made no sense because Erik would not leave him. Erik had _promised_ , and he had meant it; Charles had seen in his eyes his resolution, the authenticity of his words. The idea that Erik was reneging on that now was unbelievable. Impossible.

But Charles was holding a letter in his hand with a paragraph of words that said otherwise, and he could feel his shock fracturing into fear and horror and confusion and a terrible, desperate hope that he clung to like a man to a raft in a turbulent sea. Erik had told him he loved him so many times that the words were engraved in Charles’ mind and body and soul, and they could not be erased with a letter, even one so cruel as this. This could not be real. There had to be an alternate explanation.

The envelope lay on the table where he had placed it. Unsteadily, he stood and retrieved it, hoping for some clue without or within that might point him to the truth. He felt something thick inside—more papers perhaps, with better elucidation than the first had provided. Heart quickening, he drew them out and stepped toward the light.

Notes. Three ten pound notes. Charles’ stomach flipped and his hand trembled. Thirty pounds. A veritable fortune, nearly twice what a common farmer might make in a single year. With this, he could frugally live twelve months without work. He could shut his door, turn away unnamed clients who came to him in anonymity and in shadow, live as a man might, not a dog. He could survive.

Standing there as he was, money in hand, he was caught between glowing, breathless hope and a crushing grief and anger. He had not beheld such a sum in one place since he had absconded from Westchester, his stepfather’s specter snapping at his heels. It was a blessing, a miracle, and he was tempted to treasure it, to look on the gift with all the gratitude in the world. But the money had not come alone, it had accompanied the letter, and the words inked on the page gave the notes new meaning, colored his joy a sickening gray. This was Erik’s money. Erik had written to discontinue their relationship, and he had sent money with his message, as if, with these thirty pounds, he could buy Charles’ silence, or his forgiveness.

Fury lit through him, made him nearly tear the three ten pound notes in halves and hurl them to the floor. How dare he. How dare he treat Charles like any other common whore, to be used and then tossed aside, to be bought so cheaply. They had made promises, not contracts; friendships, not business relations. What they had had had been impossible to quantify in numbers, and Charles was incensed that Erik had tried, that he had thought thirty pounds might serve as proper recompense for the terrible hurt he had inflicted with his letter, a hurt he could not begin to understand. There was not a sum in the world that could repay Charles the sleepless nights he had spent imagining Paris and Oxford and a thousand other fantastic adventures; there was no fortune in existence that could now heal what Erik had broken. 

He stood immobile before the fire for an eternity, a chaotic flood of emotion roaring through him. He could not keep this money, for its very presence cut his pride to the quick, lanced him straight through like a sword might, deep and fatal; but he could not be a fool enough to throw it away, not when it might save his life from one year to the next. Oh, Erik. Even now, he knew how to twist Charles’ sensibilities. How cruel was his final parting blow: to give Charles a gift he did not want but could not discard, to pay for Charles’ life and force his gratitude, when all he wanted to do was hate.

Slowly, he put the money back in the envelope and set the letter on his desk. Fontenelle’s _Conversations on the Plurality of Worlds_ sat beside it, the faded silver lettering of the cover gleaming dully in the firelight. In a sudden fit of rage, Charles picked it up and tore out the first few pages, crossing the room to hurl them into the fire. The paper curled immediately at the edges, going black and crumbling, words warping on the page until holes tore through the thinned paper and swallowed the sentences away. He waited until they were nothing but ash and then tore out the next chapter, flinging it in the same way. The fire flickered and swarmed up greedily, engulfing whatever he fed it, and when the pages were gone, he tossed the cover in, too, watching it burn more slowly but no less steadily than the rest. Vicious satisfaction filled him. _You are not the only one who can destroy dreams,_ he thought savagely. _You are not the only one who can take what I love and tear it apart._

As the last of the book disappeared in the orange-yellow light, he felt suddenly exhausted. The anger slipped from him as easily as a fish down a stream, and the full horror of what he had done struck him nearly dizzy. Oh, what a fool. He was an utter, impulsive _fool_ , to be so bitter and petty as to destroy one of his few prized possessions in a moment of scorching hatred and resentment. Weakly, he dropped to his knees, poker in hand, but there was nothing left to fish out, nothing left to save. There were only ashes.

He sat heavily on the floor and closed his eyes, trying desperately not to give Erik the satisfaction of drawing a single tear from him. But the tears came anyway, tears of anger and hurt and anguish. He cried for Paris, for Oxford, for every dream Erik had ever planted in his head and now taken away with so little explication, with so little care. And when his throat was raw and his eyes felt swollen, when the tears had dried away, he put his head down and wished, fervently and horribly, that he could burn, too, burn away until he was gone.


End file.
